


Your answer in broken music

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, The King (2019)
Genre: Alternate History, Character Study, Crossover, Gen, Magic, Magical Realism, Sentient Nature, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: The king of the South, the king of the North, and an agreement of sorts.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Your answer in broken music

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chauntlucet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chauntlucet/gifts).



> Title and inspiration taken (perhaps a bit obviously!) from Shakespeare's "Henry V".  
> *  
> Thank you to [regshoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regshoe/) for beta reading.

_Now we're living_  
_Blessed with all the thunder in the world_

\- David Sylvian: [River man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byF3pfBLhD8).

*

The wind hits the skyline. The wind doesn't stop. The sun rises, and it changes everything. It changes everything. And maybe he never wanted—he never wanted _this_.

The wind answers in broken music, the wind answers in magic. And now, the magic wants to crawl within him. The land wants to take him back. And he can't bear it. No, not yet. So he hides. He hides behind the rich, dark fabric of his clothes, behind the bundle of yellowed pages and rage and pain and brittle bones. He hides away. He keeps the world away. And he pushes the magic away. And he remembers what he left behind on the mud. He remembers a part of himself, gone, gone like a thunderbolt. He remembers, and it hurts him.

He left his name in the iron and in the blood. And yes, it hurts. And he is no one now. He is alone. His words are broken. And he has his fine silks and his swords, but they are not enough. And no one should see him. His fingers fumble and catch on the buttonholes, on the rough edges, on the splinters. His fingers are cold and useless and wrong. Like iron, like his heart. Like his heart, which betrays him.

He doesn't belong in this world anymore. And no, he can't bear it. But it won't hurt him anymore. It won't hurt him _now_. This world, this south side of the sky, this is _his_. He is like a child on the moor, whispering a wish. Waiting. And he can't tell anyone, but he would dearly like to. He can't tell anyone that sometimes, sometimes he feels quite invisible, like the morning fog. But it's alright. No one can see. No one should see _him_.

He feels the iron blade of the wind, straight into his heart. His mouth tastes like rust and ash. He is tired. He is broken. He is gone.

And the wind is restless. He is restless, like the wind. But he remembers. He remembers something else. And he swears that there weren't any birds on the battlefield that day. And yet, sometimes the world is simply black or white. And maybe the world comes down to this, to a single feather, to a single spell. To a single word that doesn't hurt at all.

And _he_ could have it, if he asked. He would trade it all, for the magic. He will trade it all, for the world. For the quiet world he lost.

And he calls the world again. And he calls the magic back. And he is all alone, and he has no words, but the magic knows. And the magic finds him again. And he finds it, a lone starling in the wind. And he learns its language. And he hears every word it says. He has never asked it to stay, but it has. It might have never planned to, but it did.

And the magic takes his hand, and they walk to the water. And he turns to face the black king of the North. And he finds his eyes, like black stars. And he finds his hands. And he finds his heartbeat. Safe, like a stone in his pocket, like a reminder. Worth several battles, at the very least. Certainly deserving of more than _this_ , more than him. But he can offer this of himself. His loyalty. His life. All of himself. And he will.

And he should have it all. He should have it.

 _Will you always tell me the truth?_ he says.

And he speaks. And he stays silent. And he doesn't hide.

And the wind kisses his brow, like a child. And he feels it. To be seen. To be known. This is what peace sounds like. And he opens his eyes, and there is a feather in the wind, that same wind that comes from home. And there is silence in the moor now, and it feels like an answer. And the magic burns like wild birds, like fire. And it falls like the storm, blue and white, like the iron within, like the king's flowers. And he welcomes it, he welcomes it into his heart.


End file.
